


Stuck to Your Rib

by leftfoottrapped (miikkaa_xx)



Category: JYJ (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-15
Updated: 2015-01-15
Packaged: 2018-03-07 16:15:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3176993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miikkaa_xx/pseuds/leftfoottrapped
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jaejoong and his vices.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stuck to Your Rib

**Author's Note:**

> **warnings:** shades of jaejoong/yoochun  & jaejoong/junsu, language, implied abuse, mentions of violence, lots of smoking, unbeta'd.

-

He wonders if Yoochun gets the same treatment - the curl of an upper lip, the casual dismissal in the jerk of a chin, the too-quiet scoff.

It didn't matter much when they didn't live together. Now though - it’s like Junsu follows him so he's always at the periphery of Jaejoong's vision, holding still-water judgement in his eyes.

 

He offers one to Yunho, once. Yunho smiles at him beatifically, wrapped up in dawn-light that is spilled out from the open balcony door. Jaejoong steps to the side so his shadow doesn’t touch Yunho, holding the cigarette between two fingers.

Of course he knows the answer. Yunho raises his mug at Jaejoong, coffee bitter laughter caught between his teeth. No, thank you, Jaejoong. He has his own addictions.

 

Next is Changmin. First is a wide-eyed stare, then a narrowed, suspicious gaze. Changmin is so predictable in all his motions as a teenager - Jaejoong could draw them all out in a flip-book and pass it to the rest of the members so they can see how Changmin imitates art.

‘It’s bad for you,’ he says eventually.

‘Yeah, they are.’ Jaejoong lights up one end of the cigarette, sucks on it - a little desperate. They’re too poor to afford more than maybe two packs, or three, a week. He needs to savour this.

Of course, Changmin cannot settle with a simple ‘yes’ or a firm ‘no’. He looks at Jaejoong, wide mouth thinned out in distaste. ‘I don’t want to be like you.’

 

Yoochun doesn’t have insomnia like Jaejoong, just an extremely fucked-up sleeping schedule. In the snapshot breaks between lunch and pre-recording and dance practice and trips to and from the bus, Yoochun curls up next to Jaejoong, breath evened out and deep as he naps.

He is awake for the important things - like when Jaejoong needs another hand for groceries, or when he wants to check out a new bar, or when he spots a store that could be of some vague interest, or when he needs a partner in his vice.

Smoking comes first, alcohol second. Sex is not a vice between them - they treat it as something careful and fragile because Jaejoong will be damned before he ever lets Yoochun know what it feels like to be used and set aside.

He’s not even stressed on most days, just fatigued and itching for something, something more, that seems to be soothed when he sucks on a cigarette. As always, Yoochun is warm, shoulder pressed next to him, voice low and easy. ‘We’ll get there, hyung.’

‘Yoochunnie,’ says Jaejoong, voice sweet with affection, as he blows a stream of smoke at his face. Yoochun laughs, waving it away, coughs once, twice. He has asthma. He still keeps a pack in the back pocket of his jeans, lets Jaejoong keep their second pack in his own. Jaejoong loves him too much to figure out how to stop.

 

He doesn’t offer one to Junsu. He never gets around to it. Junsu makes his skin prickle, makes him uneasy, self-conscious in a way that no camera does. Jaejoong wants to hide his face in Yoochun’s neck when Junsu looks at him for too long, too intense.

He doesn’t ever _say_ anything to Jaejoong about it. Junsu is absolutely terrible at speaking; yet he can drown an entire city with the torrent of words when he talks, flood the streets with thoughts holding no weight, letters that are hollow.

Junsu will talk about every topic under the sun to Jaejoong’s face and manage to never brush over how he really feels, what he really thinks. Instead, Jaejoong gets to witness Junsu and his micro-expressions of disapproval when he finds the two of them on balcony past midnight, laughing with nicotine between them.

‘Join us, Junsu-ah,’ he drawls, leaning his spine against the railing, drawing an inviting circle in the air with the burning nub of his cigarette.

Yoochun elbows him, seeming exasperated. ‘He’ll throw us off this thing before he smokes, hyung.’

‘Junsu-ah’s a good dongsaeng,’ Jaejoong continues, watching Junsu watching him. ‘He’ll listen to his hyung.’

Of course there’s no verbal reply from Junsu, not about things that might possibly _matter_. Instead his mouth curls up in a sneer and he spins on his heel, back to the kitchen, his original destination at three in the morning.

 

Yoochun sleeps half-curled on the couch. His bones and muscles will ache in a few hours when he wakes. Jaejoong curls up beside him, subjects himself to the same punishment, doesn’t even think of any other alternative.

As usual, Junsu is awake first, peeks into the living room to see them pressed together, sharp angled not-adults who will soon have cricks in their necks. He steps away, comes back with a blanket, drapes it over them both.

Yoochun hums but doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t quite register reality. Next to him, Jaejoong wonders if Junsu knows he has insomnia.

 

It is not quite disgust, but it’s deeper than disapproval.

Yoochun is good with words, has hopes for songwriting still steeped in his fingers even with the schedules and the recordings and the daily escapades of being an idol, entertainer. Not artist. When Jaejoong drapes himself across Yoochun’s skin, he imagines the warmth is both from Yoochun’s body but also carefully-veiled flame of optimism.

Leeching off Yoochun’s heat, Jaejoong outlines the carefully observed facial tics of his least favourite dongsaeng.

‘So? What is it?’ Jaejoong peers up at the lovely arch of Yoochun’s cheekbone, doesn’t resist his urge to trace it with his own lips. ‘You’re always good with words.’

‘Tickles, hyung,’ murmurs Yoochun, breathless laughter between his lips. It’s a sound better than any note, beat, melody. When Jaejoong has settled back down again, Yoochun continues, ‘sounds like Junsu might be disappointed with you.’

 

Of the two youngest, Jaejoong loves Changmin infinitely more. Changmin puffs his chest up with empty attitude, except he doesn’t realize he’s expanding his china-glass ribs outwards where they’re more prone to being broken.

He has cute little kitten claws too, to match his sharp little mouth.

‘The maknae is supposed to be a brat,’ says Yunho when he walks in the same time Changmin stumbles out of the kitchen, his skin covered in a splattering of bruises, before slamming into his room with Junsu.

Jaejoong scoffs, gesturing to his arm. ‘He hit me first.’ The skin is splotchy red. In return, Changmin’s arm is a mottled purple. The difference between kitten claws and knives.

Despite the pathetic barbs and inexperienced punches, Changmin still has a healthy dose of terrified obeisance after Jaejoong insults him enough, bruises him up enough, maybe both. He’s so cooperative when Jaejoong needs it from him, forces it from him if need be. Jaejoong loves him too much to stop.

 

Yunho and Yoochun are similar in that they look at Jaejoong and see past his habits. They humour him; Yunho distantly indulgent, while Yoochun presses his affection into Jaejoong’s skin because he knows Jaejoong feeds off it, needs it.

They see bruises on Changmin’s skin and they think nothing past Changmin’s vicious snarl of ‘I’m _fine_.’ Can’t spot the pinpricks of terror at the corners of Changmin’s mouth, can’t figure out his automatic shoulder-tuck when Jaejoong draws too near.

When Jaejoong steps into the hall, he sees Junsu in the bathroom, sitting on his haunches as he looks in the cupboard under the sink. ‘Did you forget to put the first aid kit back, hyung?’ _As usual_ hangs silently in the air, reeking of disappointment. Junsu isn’t looking at him. Jaejoong’s fingers itch. He wonders if Junsu is like Changmin, if he just needs a little nudge in the right direction.

There is a pause right after Junsu stands up and turns towards him, face passive, expectant of an answer. It’s long enough for Jaejoong to make up his mind. His forearm flies out, slams hard into Junsu’s solar plexus, winds him entirely. ‘Shut the fuck up,’ he says when Junsu stumbles back, coughing, trying not to fall over.

Not even in the next second, Junsu is flying at him. It takes Yunho wrenching Junsu back by his half-ripped shirt while Yoochun has a deathgrip on Jaejoong’s upper arm, dragging him into their shared room. Jaejoong sneers when he sees Junsu calm only after Yunho buries his face in Junsu’s neck, speaking low and soft, before the door slams shut, separating them.

‘What the _fuck_ was that, hyung,’ says Yoochun, voice low, expression alarmed and worried, as he finally lets Jaejoong go, pushing him to sit on the bed.

Jaejoong’s hands are shaking. ‘I need a smoke.’

 

‘It was my fault,’ says Junsu to Yoochun while Jaejoong chain-smokes on the balcony, keeping the door open so he can hear them. ‘It won’t happen again, sorry. Is Jaejoong-hyung okay?’

‘Such a good dongsaeng,’ snaps Jaejoong, unable to help it, but doesn’t turn around to see if they’ve acknowledged him. 

‘He’ll be fine,’ says Yoochun. Even if Jaejoong isn’t, Yoochun will make him feel fine as long as Jaejoong can still cradle Yoochun’s lovely face, tuck his face between neck and shoulder, breathe him in. ‘You should do something about that bruise, Junsu-ah. Split lip too.’ Yoochun laughs, ‘I don’t think makeup coordis know how to cover that up.’

‘Oh no, coordi-noona is going to be _so_ mad at me,’ starts Junsu, seriousness evaporating into thin air as he launches into a flustered mess of sentences, about makeup and shoots and recordings and disinfectant and bandages and and _and_

 

Changmin finds the first aid kit. It was under his bed.

 

Yoochun falls asleep on the couch again. At least he’s lying down across the cushions this time, so his back won’t hurt as bad in the morning. Jaejoong fits himself between the back of the couch and Yoochun, holds him and breathes him in and doesn’t let go.

Like clockwork, the sun rises, the birds wake up, and Junsu is trodding into the living room with a blanket. He drapes it over them before heading to the kitchen for breakfast.

 

‘Yunho-ah, you’re so nice,’ croons Jaejoong one morning when they’re all in the kitchen, flitting between fridge, coffee machine, rice cooker, and table. ‘Aren’t you the one who keeps tucking Yoochunnie and I in when we pass out on the couch? What a good leader-sshi.’

Changmin snorts, and Yoochun perks his head up from his bowl. ‘Really? Thanks, Yunho. Jaejoongie-hyung seems to think his body heat is enough for every temperature.’

Junsu laughs at that. ‘Of course he does.’

 

‘Something is bothering you,’ says Yoochun, voice soft and careful, cradling Jaejoong in its tones. This time they’re in bed and both their feet are always cold, so they tangle them together, think a negative with a negative has to make a positive somewhere.

Jaejoong doesn’t have the syllables all ordered up yet, so he settles with the usual: ‘sometimes, I think I love you too much.’

Yoochun bursts into laughter, muffles it into Jaejoong’s shoulder. ‘You’re so sentimental.’ It would sting if Jaejoong didn’t know Yoochun will always follow-up: ‘there’s no such thing as too much, hyung. Just enough.’

‘Sometimes,’ says Jaejoong slowly, ‘I think I hate Junsu too much. Is that something?’

To his credit, Yoochun doesn’t seem surprised. He slides his toes under the sole of Jaejoong’s foot, ticklish, and stays close. ‘Now you’re being sensitive.’

‘It’s okay, Yoochunnie, he hates me back just as much.’

‘Now you’re _really_ being sensitive,’ says Yoochun. ‘I thought you loved all your members. Or are the creepy phone pictures just for blackmail?’

‘They’re not creepy,’ he says immediately, any thought of Junsu lost when Yoochun keeps pressing his smiles into Jaejoong’s collarbone, so wonderfully warm.

 

It is five in the morning on some day. Yoochun’s head is pillowed on Jaejoong’s shoulder, leg thrown carelessly over his thighs. Jaejoong thinks he’s going to have the shittiest headache once he has to lift his skull from the couch arm. The dawn creeps up as Jaejoong drowses, running his fingers through Yoochun’s hair.

It is five in the morning on some day, doesn’t fucking matter, because without fail, Junsu is the first awake and the only person to give a shit about them sleeping on this couch because he has the blanket in his arms already.

He shakes it out with a soft rustle, lays it on top of them with no real lingering. Just another chore. When he looks at them, Jaejoong doesn’t bother pretending anymore. Junsu is surprised, mouth parting and eyes wide, when he sees Jaejoong watching him. He stays silent, which is more than Jaejoong expected, to be honest.

Still. Junsu doesn’t linger. He shakes the surprise off, takes another cursory glance at Jaejoong, and turns away. Just another fucking chore.

 

There are two cigarettes left in the pack. Their paycheck is coming in six days. Jaejoong can survive. He’s survived worse. Withdrawal feels nothing like the first audition rejection, nothing like hopeless survival in Japan, nothing like running ragged on scraps of sleep for days on end. _Jaejoong_ can survive.

Jaejoong sits on Junsu’s bed, waits. Yoochun is entertaining Changmin, Yunho is out being a workaholic. Junsu is getting a snack from the kitchen. One minute, then two. Junsu walks into the dorm room with an apple hanging from his mouth and blinks.

‘I need to borrow money from you.’ It comes out practiced and forced because it is.

Junsu unlatches his teeth from the apple, lets it fall into his open palm. His mouth is slick. ‘No.’

‘It’s not for me. It’s for Yoochun.’

‘Is it for drinks or smokes?’

‘I need to buy a pack.’

‘You could’ve gone begging at the SuJu dorms.’ Junsu watches Jaejoong watch him. ‘Why are you here, hyung?’

Jaejoong leans back on his hands. ‘Because you won’t tell anyone that I begged.’ He smiles, shows his teeth. ‘Such a _good_ dongsaeng.’

 

Two weeks later, Junsu corners him on the balcony. Beside him, Yoochun is making perfect smoke rings, but they falter when he sees Junsu out of the corner of his eye and turns around. ‘Junsu-ah?’

‘Can I join you?’ asks Junsu.

Yoochun grins in surprise, knocks his chin up in approval. Jaejoong doesn’t move, doesn’t want to see.

Two heartbeats later, and Jaejoong has warmth on both sides of his shoulders. Yoochun is taking a long drag, resuming making his rings through the air, half-hidden in the twilight. Jaejoong takes a puff from his, looking on the other side to see Junsu. He blows the stream right into his face.

Junsu sputters and coughs, backing off. Yoochun’s fingers slide down Jaejoong’s throat, tells him to ease up. ‘Hyung.’

‘Thought Junsu-ah wanted a taste,’ replies Jaejoong.

Undeterred, Junsu steps back to the spot where he was and digs a hand into his back pocket. Draws out a pack. Their favourite brand. Yoochun makes a surprised sound, ‘do you know what you’re doing?’

‘No,’ says Junsu. ‘Show me, Jaejoong-hyung.’

Jaejoong snorts, crushing his cigarette on the railing and flicking it away. Junsu follows the arc of the stick until it’s too small to see before offering him the pack.

He rips the plastic off, and Yoochun takes it before Jaejoong can litter anymore. It’s easy to flick the lid of the pack - fresh box, all ninety degree angles at the four corners. Hasn’t been crushed in a pocket, smothered between ass and chair, shoved hastily under the mattress, into a backpack.

Yoochun is moving off the balcony, ‘I’ll throw this out and empty the ashtray.’ He doesn’t make a mention of when he’ll be back, because he won’t, and for one instant, Jaejoong is _terrified_. Doesn’t think he can handle Junsu alone out here, pressed against the railing. Didn’t Yoochun say once - _he’ll throw us off this thing before he smokes, hyung_.

The instant passes, leaves Jaejoong’s heart in his throat, as he pops out one stick, closes the box, tries to hand it back to Junsu.

‘It’s for you,’ he says. ‘It’s your favourite, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah.’ The cigarette goes between his lips. The ninety degrees of the box fold, turn into thirty and a hundred and fifty degrees, when it slides into the back pocket of his jeans. The lighter is - is - usually with Yoochun because Jaejoong has absolutely zero self-control and where is Yoochun - where is - is - 

‘Here.’ Junsu flicks the lighter, expression crumpled in focus. He hasn’t dealt with these things much before. It takes him three tries for a flame, finally manages to light up one end while Jaejoong takes two, three starting puffs to make sure it’ll stay burning. ‘Figured you’d forget your own.’

‘Is that for me too?’ Jaejoong has the courtesy to blow the smoke away from Junsu now.

Junsu snorts and pockets it. ‘You have no self control.’

‘Everyone says that.’ Jaejoong smokes through half his cigarette in silence, forearms pressed against the cold metal of the railing, watching the sunset streak through the cracks of the buildings ahead.

‘Smoking is bad for you,’ says Junsu.

Ah. Something like a wry smile tugs at the corners of Jaejoong’s mouth. ‘Really? I had no idea.’

‘You’ll ruin your voice.’

‘Maybe.’

‘I hate you.’

‘I know.’ Jaejoong glances at him. ‘I hate you too.’ Junsu has that expression on his face, the one that’s not disgust or disapproval. Fury fills Jaejoong’s lungs, chokes him for a moment. ‘Don’t fucking look at me like that.’

‘Like what, hyung?’ Junsu tilts his head to the side like he really doesn’t know.

‘Like you’re - you’re disappointed in me.’

‘All I want is best for my hyung.’

Jaejoong snarls out, grabs the collar of Junsu’s shirt, relishes in the fear that flashes over Junsu’s expression before it’s schooled back into passivity. ‘Shut the fuck up.’

‘You’ll ruin your voice,’ repeats Junsu. ‘I fucking hate you.’

It takes a beat before Jaejoong finally _understands_. He laughs, unbelieving, and yelps because his cigarette has burned to the butt, stung to the skin of his other hand. He had forgotten about it.

‘Let go of me, hyung,’ says Junsu, a little scoff at the sight of Jaejoong dropping the stub and rubbing the sensitive red skin of his fingers.

‘No.’ Jaejoong drags him closer, can see each facial tic of Junsu now, along with the uneven complexion, the bags under his eyes, the sallowness of his cheeks, the short length of his lashes. ‘You’re jealous of me.’

‘You’re a piece of shit,’ offers Junsu in return.

‘My voice _is_ better than yours, isn’t it?’ he drawls, likes the stung look that draws itself over Junsu’s face. ‘So sad that I’m going to ruin it, right? What a waste of talent.’

Junsu is obstinately silent. Doesn’t matter. Jaejoong sees it on his face. ‘Did you really expect that much from me?’

‘Let go of me,’ he replies quietly.

‘You’re such a fucking _good_ boy, aren’t you.’ He forgets to make it a question, amusement sliding back down his throat, letting it be replaced by something sharper and meaner. ‘Only let other good boys like Yoochunnie and Yunho and Changminnie to talk to you, can’t talk to shit like _me_.’

Exhaling shakily, Jaejoong lets go of him, scowling. ‘Fuck off.’

Except: ‘talking to you now,’ replies Junsu, unmoving, taunting.

‘Don’t you have to pray or something?’ Jaejoong remembers when they found Junsu’s rosary; remembers how every nice boy stereotype tumbled down from the ceiling and built up around Junsu, raised him up on a throne. Untouchable, righteous little fuck.

Junsu takes a step back, another. He watches Jaejoong, eyes slit in suspicion, before he is suddenly digging into his pocket and then tossing the lighter at Jaejoong, doesn’t mock the way Jaejoong fumbles to catch it. ‘Everyone else is wrong. I know you have self-control.’

Finally, he leaves.

 

A shift. Tectonic plates crack and slide against one another. An earthquake within the dorms where no one feels it except Jaejoong and, by association, Yoochun.

They try to quit smoking once. Fails. Back on the balcony two weeks together, scratching their nicotine itch. Yoochun looks at Jaejoong and snorts. ‘Yeah, let’s try again in a few months.’

Once, Yoochun catches sight of Junsu again when they’re on the balcony. He beckons with his cigarette, ‘want to try?’ Junsu waves off the offer, but lingers. Watches.

Jaejoong turns around and dissects Junsu’s expressions now. Later, he splays himself over Yoochun’s chest, describes it to him quietly in every detail; it’s essential he gets it right.

‘Are you sure?’ Yoochun’s fingers are playing with Jaejoong’s hair, repetitive and soothing. ‘Then I’d say he looks curious.’

Jaejoong is purring into the touch, and he doesn’t stop, closing his eyes, even when the words sink into his skin, excite his blood. He’ll have to leave the room door open the next time they drink. The next time they fuck.

Junsu, the good little boy trying to save him. Like he doesn’t realize Jaejoong wants to twist and catch him and drag him down, like he doesn’t know he’ll come tumbling sooner or later from his high seat, as long as Jaejoong keeps tugging. Fall until Junsu is finally on equal ground with Jaejoong. He hates Junsu too much to stop now.

-

**Author's Note:**

> when was the last time I wrote a fic without porn; if you read this, thank you~


End file.
